‘What did she tell you?’

  Another deep inhalation followed by an exhalation. ‘It sounds mad,’ Beth said, ‘but she said she was on the trail of a killer – those were the words she used. She’d uncovered a number of deaths no one knew were really murder. And she knew who the killer was.’

  ‘Did she tell you who?’

  ‘No. I asked her. She got all coy, sort of sly too. Said she had it all written down in a book, that she’d done her research. She said she just wanted me to know that if anything happened to her then it would probably be murder. She said, tell them not to believe it if it seems like natural causes or an accident. Tell them to run every test they could.’

  ‘Every test?’

  ‘Yes, in a post-mortem, I think she meant.’

  ‘Tests for what?’

  ‘She didn’t say. For poison, I assumed. I tried to get her to explain, but she started going off on one, talking about serial killers. Then she started on about her neighbours. Someone who’d been rude to her – petty stuff. Then back to killers, then on about Morag at the pub. Something about a boatman too. She was manic. She could get like that, you know. Hyper focused. Obsessive. Jesus… Are you telling me she was right all along?’

  ‘You didn’t believe her about the murders?’

  ‘No. No I didn’t, if I’m honest. I mean, I took her seriously – to begin with, at least. But then the more she went on, I thought to myself, “Here she goes again.” She said she’d found someone who was taking her seriously and was going to help. And then she hung up. I tried phoning her back, but she didn’t answer. I thought about driving down there, I really did, but then I came up with lots of reasons why I shouldn’t. Why it would probably be okay. But it was still on my mind when I woke up the next day. I remembered Morag at the pub. That’s where I stay if ever I visit. So I phoned and asked Morag if she’d mind going along the road and checking on Auntie. She wasn’t too keen, but I was worried. I even thought about calling the doctor.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  Anna thought for a moment. ‘When was the last time you saw your auntie?’

  ‘Oh, ages! I hadn’t talked to her in ages, either. When she rang two weeks ago it was the first time in… oh, maybe a year.’

  ‘She rang you two weeks ago? What did she want?’

  A draw of breath then a long exhalation. ‘She said she was coming to Glasgow and asked if she could stay at mine. I said no, it wasn’t convenient. Look,’ she went on sharply, ‘I didn’t have anything against her, not really, but she could be a pain. I didn’t want her in my house. Not for any length of time, anyway. I said I had a friend staying.’

  ‘Sorry, Beth, when did she want to stay?’ Anna asked.

  ‘The next week – so that’d be last week, if you get me. She said she would drive over on the Tuesday and would be with me “two or three nights”.’

  ‘Did she say why she was coming to Glasgow?’

  ‘She said she had business to see to. Things she needed to check, people she needed to talk to.’

  ‘Did she say what business?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she name any of the people she was planning to⁠—?’

  ‘Sorry, no. As I say, I told her I had a friend staying. I said to try one of the B & Bs in the West End, but she said that was no good. She needed to be in the Southside and that’s where I live.’

  ‘She needed to be in the Southside. The Southside’s a pretty big area. Did she mention any particular part?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And where do you live?’ Anna had Beth’s address, but it was just a street name and postcode.

  ‘Shawlands,’ Beth said. ‘Just off Kilmarnock Road. As I say, I said I couldn’t help her. Oh God, I can’t believe this has happened. Are you going to want me to fly home? You’ll need someone to identify her, won’t you?’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ Anna said. ‘Your aunt was well-known here. The local doctor has identified her for us.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  ‘If you remember anything else,’ Anna said, ‘do please call.’

  Anna sat for a few minutes in the quiet of the car to let herself decompress – and absorb some of the volume of information that had landed on her in the past hour. Not least the shock of picking up Ellen’s phone and hearing Lola’s voice on the other end. Lola, who’d been her boss and mentor – her friend, too – back in G Division. Lola had left such a huge hole when she’d made her decision to resign from the force and go work with Sandy. How odd that Ellen had contacted her for help…

  She started the car and drove down the zigzagging hill and met Carol Baillie driving up in her tiny Fiat. She pulled in to let her pass. When their cars were side by side, Carol put her window down. Anna lowered her own.

  ‘You weren’t coming to see me, were you?’ she asked.

  ‘I was at Harriet’s,’ Anna said.

  ‘Oh, I see. I was worried I’d missed you. Do come and see us, won’t you? Duncan enjoys visitors, and…’ She made an embarrassed face. ‘And maybe there are one or two things you’d like to know.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, nothing important,’ Carol said quickly. ‘Just things to help you understand the type of person Ellen was. She wasn’t a bad person. Well, not really. Oh, but ignore me.’ She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture.

  ‘We’ll come and see you,’ Anna said. ‘Later this afternoon, hopefully.’

  ‘Oh, good!’ She looked delighted. ‘We’ll be in. I’ve got some lovely biscuits.’

  Carol drove on and Anna carried on down the hill, understanding the woman’s need while groaning inwardly under the weight of emotional obligation.

  At the foot of the hill, she made the dogleg into Back Lane and bumped along to Slipway Cottage. Over the fields the sea was black and disturbed under a leaden sky. The islands had reappeared and formed ominous shapes on the horizon. The wind blew strongly, rocking the car. The Islay ferry was heading west along the loch, heading for the sea once more and leaning in the wind.

  Johnny Clark’s huge Jaguar estate was still parked beside the house. Anna drove through the gates and parked beside it. He was out of the house in a flash and stood, fists on his hips, waiting for her.

  ‘What is it?’ he barked.

  ‘You were gathering litter off the shore earlier, Mr Clark,’ Anna said.

  ‘Yes, what about it?’

  ‘Did you find a book? A black notebook with a hard cover?’

  ‘I collected all manner of rubbish.’ He frowned. ‘Why? Is it evidence?’

  ‘It could be. I’d like to look in your wheelie bin. Do you mind?’

  He raised his eyebrows and gave a small chortle. ‘Be my guest!’

  He turned and led the way to the two bins and pointed. ‘It’s all in the green one. That’s non-recyclable rubbish. The recycling goes in the blue bin. Doesn’t make much sense to me, but who am I?’

  Anna pulled on forensic gloves and lifted the lid of the green-coloured wheelie bin. It was half-full and smelled unpleasantly of rotting food. There was a heap of soggy material inside. ‘I’m going to tip everything out,’ she told Clark. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure everything goes back in.’

  He said nothing, just sneered down his nose as if she was mad.

  Anna tipped the bin on its side, then manoeuvred the lid so it sat wide open and finally lifted the end with the wheels. A sludge of rubbish poured out onto the weedy gravel, followed by a tied bag of rubbish from the house. She lifted the bag aside and focused on the sludge, making out plastic bottles, the odd bit of glass, dark fabric, blue plastic straws, lengths of netting.

  ‘You had a pair of tongs earlier,’ she called to Clark. ‘Would you mind getting them for me?’

  ‘A pleasure,’ he said sourly, and disappeared, returning a minute later with the long wooden implements.

  She used the tongs to separate items, lifting out a dripping black T-shirt, shuffling plastic bottles apart, drawing plastic bags aside and teasing away the netting.

  No black book. In fact, no book or paper of any kind. She glanced up to see Johnny Clark smirking beadily. He was enjoying this.

  ‘And now all back in the bin, if you don’t mind,’ he said haughtily.

  She slung the bag back inside then set about replacing the sludge of rubbish.

  She was almost done and ready to right the bin when he said, with great amusement, ‘Of course, that isn’t everything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, panting as she got to her feet.

  ‘I’ve another half-full bag round the side.’

  ‘You could have told me,’ she snapped.

  ‘I’ll fetch it for you, shall I?’

  ‘Please.’

  He disappeared and returned with a half-full bin bag, which he lay at her feet.

  She bent and opened the bag to peer inside. The contents looked to be more of the same. Nevertheless, she crouched, took the bag by the bottom and tipped everything out onto the gravel. And there, its hard cover gleaming wet like a black gemstone in slurry, was a notebook.

  She reached for it and stood up.

  ‘Found what you were looking for, eh?’ Clark enquired.

  She ignored him, turning her back and inspected the thing. It was A5-sized, embossed on its cover with gold letters spelling out Daily Diary. She opened it, heart racing and her mouth dry.

  There were pages inside, sodden and bent, but for only half the year. The entire first half of the year, every day to the 17th of July in fact, had been ripped from the binding.

  She took an evidence bag from her jacket pocket and put it inside, then sealed the packet and put it in her pocket. Then she turned and crouched before the fresh pile of rubbish and dragged it apart with her hands, drawing out yet more netting, fragments of plastic, bottles… But no paper.

  She stood, demoralised, and turned to Clark. She withdrew the bagged diary and showed it to Clark.

  ‘Do you remember picking this up?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Everything in this bag,’ she said, pointing at the pile at her feet. ‘Where did you collect it?’

  ‘Down the other side of the dunes there, at the water’s edge.’ He pointed behind him, past the house and across the grassy sand.

  ‘Show me,’ she said.

  He tutted. ‘Very well.’

  He led the way round the back of the house and out onto the dunes through a low wooden gate that swung on its hinges.

  ‘This way is best,’ he called behind him, though the wind almost drowned out his words.

  There was a ravine between two of the dunes, but the going was tough. Sand crumbled underfoot and twice Anna had to grab hold of tussocks of tough grass. The wind was wild here, ripping at Anna’s hair and jacket. Clark began to descend, himself slipping once. Anna went down gingerly after him, at last reaching the pebbly, wave-smashed shore.

  ‘All along here,’ he yelled, pointing west along the sea’s edge. ‘And that way too.’ He pointed east, back towards the start of the beach. ‘You can walk along there and see.’

  Anna started, rounding a point. From there she gained a view of the little beach, stretching west, and the dunes where the gate was that led into the lane – the way Ellen McIver had gone and where she’d met her death.

  She stood there for a minute or two, imagining someone – the driver of the tractor, Ellen’s killer – emerging through that gate and making their way over the sand, down to the water’s edge, perhaps pausing there to rip pages from the book and – what, pocketing them? – before hurling the defaced book into the waves, only to be collected by the litter-picking prig behind her now.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking back at Clark. ‘Which is the best way back?’

  ‘This way,’ he said and turned to go.

  Before she went after him, Anna took another moment to survey the scene, including the churning sea, the mouth of the loch… and the ferry that ploughed ever westward towards the sea and the islands on the horizon.

  She caught herself, then reached into her pocket for her phone. It was 3.41 p.m. She gazed back at the great vessel and knew she’d just realised something potentially very significant.

  16

  Turning out of Back Lane, she spotted Marcus Jones, the investigative journalist, in the front garden of Ellen’s cottage, peering in through the front window of the living room. He heard Anna’s car and stepped sheepishly away from the glass.

  She put her window down. ‘Looking for something, Mr Jones?’

  ‘Answers,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘Seeing as I can’t get them from you.’

  She turned her engine off, got out and went over to the garden gate. They faced one another.

  ‘Ellen spoke to you, didn’t she?’ Anna said. ‘She told you things.’

  He shrugged again.

  ‘I need to know what it was,’ she said. ‘It’s an offence to withhold information.’

  ‘I’m not withholding anything,’ he said calmly. ‘I’m investigating, that’s all. Like you. Now, how would you feel about a little exchange of information?’

  ‘From you to me?’ Anna said smartly. ‘I’d like that very much. Actually, I’d expect it. What do you know, Mr Jones?’

  ‘Not without something from you in return,’ he said, smirking a little.

  ‘Then jog on,’ Anna said, thinking about all the other fish she had to fry.

  She got back in her car and drove fast back into the village.

  Parked up outside the village hall, she searched Caledonian MacBrayne’s website on her phone and found a pdf of the summer timetable for the Kennacraig to Islay ferry route.

  And there it was: an additional ferry during the months of July and August, leaving Kennacraig at 3.15 p.m. on weekdays.

  They’d originally estimated Ellen must have been killed between three o’clock and four o’clock. Rosie Blake had seen her arguing with Leo Maxwell at the entrance to Back Lane just before three, which narrowed the time window to roughly 3.15 p.m. to 4 p.m.

  Jo would be another few minutes, so she sent a message to Nick, asking if he’d had any luck contacting the solicitor, Robyn McArthur. He texted back straight away:

  Speaking to her at 4. Also got a number for mum’s friend Christina. About to give her a call. X

  She texted back:

  Okay, good luck. Let me know how you get on. X

  Next, she checked her emails and saw Lola had sent through a note of her recalled phone call with Ellen McIver on Tuesday. She read it quickly. Everything was as Lola had already told her, but there was one interesting new detail: Ellen had mentioned a woman called ‘Mrs Shein or Shiner’ to Lola, saying she hoped to get information from her. When Lola pushed her for more details, Ellen had clammed up. Lola had written:

  EMcI said she had a certain amount of evidence already but needed more, including something ‘concrete’ she was hoping to ‘lay her hands on’. She said she would need advice from me about what to do with said evidence. Also, what ‘higher authority’ to take it to. Said she needed my help to preserve and present evidence in a way people will take seriously.

  LH expressed this sounded extremely serious. Urged her to talk to police – at which she became angry. Accused LH of not believing her/taking her seriously.

  EMcI hung up.

  Something concrete. Something you laid your hands on…

  The officer at the cordon was moving it. Moments later a white van with tinted rear windows emerged from the lane. Jo’s car came after it. She parked in front of Anna’s Volvo, and they both got out.

  ‘That’s the body away,’ Jo said, turning to watch the van disappear along the road.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘I think I’ve found Ellen’s black book,’ she said, and took the bagged diary from her jacket pocket. ‘Johnny Clark fished it out of the sea. It’s had a number of pages ripped out of it. I want to show it to Morag to see if she recognises it. But first – there’s an extra ferry on in the afternoons. Did you know?’

  ‘Yes, it’s for the summer crowd. Why?’

  ‘It leaves Kennacraig at 3.15 p.m. on weekdays. If it was on time yesterday, then it would have passed the little beach around half-past three.’

  Jo’s eyes widened in realisation. ‘So somebody might have seen something?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it? Can you contact the port and ask?’

  ‘I can go one better,’ Jo said. ‘My dad works there! I’ll phone him now.’

  Morag came to the door of the pub wearing an apron and wielding a duster and a bottle of spray polish.

  ‘Come on in,’ she beamed and stood aside to let Anna enter. ‘Just giving the tables a shine ahead of this evening’s opening.’ She closed the door. ‘I hope you’ll be eating with us, by the way. Lovely hotpot on the stove already, plus some chicken and leek pies with fresh veg. There’s nachos too, if you want something lighter.’

  ‘I may well do,’ Anna said.

  ‘Excellent.’ Morag beamed. ‘Now, can I get you a drink? Coffee machine isn’t on, but I could do you a Coke, or there are bottles in the fridge. We’ve got Fanta, some of that fancy ginger beer⁠—’

  ‘It’s very kind, but I don’t have a lot of time,’ Anna said. ‘I wanted to show you something and see if you recognise it.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’

  The landlady turned and put her polish and duster down, then brushed her hands on her apron. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘This,’ Anna said, and drew out the transparent evidence bag containing the diary. ‘I can’t take it out of the bag, but you can have a look.’ She held it out for Morag to take.

  Morag took it carefully, seeming nervous. ‘It’s Ellen’s,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes,’ she added firmly. ‘It’s Ellen’s, all right. It’s in a state. Been in the sea, has it?’

  Anna put out her hand to take the packet back.